


On Kindly Beaches

by Theonenamedafterahat



Category: Black Sails
Genre: And Miranda is there in spirit, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Black Sails characters are also there, Reunion Fic, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-24 09:59:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12010368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theonenamedafterahat/pseuds/Theonenamedafterahat
Summary: Woodes Rogers tries to get Thomas Hamilton to help him persuade Captain Flint to accept the pardons. This does not go well for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This literally wouldn't have been possible without Flintsredhair, who is wonderful and brilliant and endlessly patient with my complaining

_Charles Town, Carolina_

_23 February, 1714_

 

_Mr Woodes Rogers,_

_I must congratulate you sir on the successful passage of your bill regarding the restoration of New Providence Island through Parliament. It is indeed a most admirable venture, & I wish you well in your expedition. I, along with all civilised people in the Americas, eagerly await your arrival, & hope for your success in eradicating the scourge of the Pirate Menace that infests Nassau. _

_Regarding your particular enquiry, I find myself unable to find the words to express my true sentiments, but I must tell you that T. Hamilton was a good man, brought low by a wicked deed. It is my greatest regret that he was unable to overcome his demons, despite having assisted in giving him every opportunity to do so._

 

_Yrs,_

_Lord Peter Ashe,_

_Governor of the Carolina Colony_

  


_\--------------------_

  


_Charles Town, Carolina_

_17 August, 1714_

 

_Mr Woodes Rogers,_

_I must ask from where you have heard such fanciful rumours regarding T. Hamilton, & beg you not to spread them further, since they are entirely without merit or truth. His death in Bethlem Royal Hospital was a tragedy, & I find such speculation as yours to be entirely beyond the bounds of decency, civility, & good taste. _

 

_Yrs,_

_Lord Peter Ashe,_

_Governor of the Carolina Colony_

  


_\--------------------_

  


_Charles Town, Carolina_

_3 March, 1715_

_BURN AFTER READING_

 

_W.R._

_I write to thank you for your letter of the 22nd, though the information contained within shook me to my very core, for it confirms my worst suspicions about a man I once called friend. Yet, despite my previous doubts as to his character, to see proof that the dreaded pirate Captain James Flint is the man I knew all those years ago is a still great shock, & an even greater disappointment. _

_I am willing to provide you with the information you seek, & more besides - though I am unwilling to commit such dangerous words to a mere letter. Instead I must implore you to visit a certain plantation, which may be found in the wilderness north of Spanish Florida. The owner of that establishment is a most respectable & decent man by the name of James Oglethorpe. Send word once you reach Carolina, & I shall accompany you there myself. _

 

_P.A._

  


_\--------------------_

  


_Woodes Rogers_

_London, England_

 

_Dear Sir,_

_I write to inform you of the death of our mutual friend, the Lord Governor Peter Ashe, who was murdered by the pirate James Flint as he sacked Charles Town. Before his death Lord Ashe informed me of your intentions regarding one of the labourers at my plantation, and while I am afraid I will be unable to assist you in your endeavour, in the name of my friend, I am prepared to receive you at your convenience. If you would be so kind as to write to me once you arrive in Savannah, then I will send a carriage to bring you safely to my plantation, where we may discuss the matter further._

 

_Yours,_

_James Oglethorpe_

_Savannah, Georgia_

_3 June, 1715_

  


* * *

 

 

 

Oglethorpe’s office is dark and hot, and as Woodes Rogers sits listening to him expound the principles behind his grand endeavour in the New World, it occurs to him that Lord Ashe might not have informed Oglethorpe of the nature of his request.  

“What’s to be done with the unwanted ones? The men who do not fit, whom civilisation must prune from the vine to protect its sense of itself. Every culture since earliest antiquity survived this way - defining itself by the things it excludes. So long as there is progress, there will always be human debris in its wake, on the outside looking in. And sooner or later, one must -”

“I’m sorry,” Rogers says, “but I do not require a sales pitch. I am here for Thomas Hamilton. Lord Ashe assured me that my request would be granted, and -”

“And he should not have,” Oglethorpe says firmly. He gestures with the pipe in his hand to the window behind him. “Did you see the gates you walked through when you entered this place?”

Rogers raises an eyebrow. “They would be hard to miss.”

“ _Non Sibi Sed Aliis_ ,” Oglethorpe recites. “‘Not for oneself, but for others.’ The men kept in this place are here not just for society’s sake, but for their own. Many of them have enemies - such is the nature of being anathema to the empire. As such, I consider it my duty to maintain their anonymity. Were I consulted, I would have advised Lord Ashe not to confirm Thomas Hamilton’s presence here. But, while he saw fit to do so before his death, there is nothing more I can do for you.”

Oglethorpe sighs, sets down his pipe, and stands. Rogers watches as he goes over the the mantle to pour a glass of something dark and fragrant.

“I am not sure you understand the gravity of the current situation,” Rogers says, as Oglethorpe busies himself with the bottle in a transparent attempt to avoid facing him directly.

“I might say the same,” Oglethorpe replies. He drinks, then sets his glass down and pours another. “I have made a commitment to this place, and to the men who have been entrusted to my care. While I have no doubt that your intentions are honourable, I am afraid I cannot give you what you want.”

“And why is that?”

“Because once men enter those gates, they must cease to be. It is the only way they can find peace. If I allow you to remove one from their number, who can say how that might affect the rest?”

Oglethorpe sighs again, and turns back to Rogers. “It would be cruel,” he says firmly. “It would give them hope.”

“I understand your concerns,” Rogers says.

“Then sir, there is nothing left for me to do but apologise for your wasted time.”

“But I must say again - I fear the gravity of the current situation escapes you.”

Oglethorpe frowns. “I’m afraid I don’t follow -”

“You say that Lord Ashe explained to you my reasons for coming here,” Rogers says.

“You wish to take one of the men in my charge from this place.”

“I do,” Rogers replies easily. “And once you learn why, I believe you will agree that it’s the only reasonable course of action.”

“And why is that?” Oglethorpe scoffs.

“It’s a long story,” Rogers allows himself a smirk. “And most of it has to do with Thomas Hamilton. I take it you know some of his past already.”

Oglethorpe’s frown only deepens as he returns to his seat, and retrieves his pipe. He probably thinks it makes him look dignified. “I do,” he says at last. “A radical, and a sodomite. Made too much trouble for his own good, and paid a terrible price for it. What does that have to do with anything?”

“He had a lover, didn’t he,” Rogers says. “A promising young officer, in her majesty’s navy.”

“So I am told,” Oglethorpe shrugs. “But what of it?”

“The lover was exiled shortly after Hamilton’s arrest.”

“Indeed. Died at sea shortly after Thomas arrived, as I recall. Lord Ashe told Thomas himself.”

“And that,” Rogers says, leaning forward, “was a lie.”

Oglethorpe’s expression completely fails to intimidate. “What does it matter?”

“It matters,” Rogers says, “because the lover is none other than Captain James Flint. I assume you have heard of him?”

Oglethorpe actually drops his pipe, then flushes. He makes no attempt to retrieve it, but sits there speechless.

“Five years ago, Captain Flint murdered Lord Alfred Hamilton, the man who had Thomas committed to Bethlem. Three _months_ ago, he murdered Lord Peter Ashe, and he burned Charlestown.”

Rogers stands, and looks down at the man before him. “I have a letter from Lord Ashe confirming that Thomas Hamilton is alive, and imprisoned here.”

It’s not technically a lie. Certainly there’s no other conclusion Captain Flint will come to if Rogers shows him his correspondence with Lord Ashe.

“You can’t mean to say -”

Oglethorpe is shaking now. Rogers almost pities him.

“I have no desire to see Captain Flint burn this place as he did Charlestown,” Rogers says. “I would much rather you allow me to take Thomas Hamilton from this place.”

“Why?” Oglethorpe asks weakly. “What good could it possibly do?”

“Thomas Hamilton is perhaps the only man who could convince Flint to accept the pardon I am offering. To renounce violence, to end his reign of terror, and to assist in the rebuilding of New Providence Island. A worthy cause, as I’m sure you will agree.”

“I - yes,” Oglethorpe says distantly. “Yes.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Rogers says, magnanimous in victory, “I will of course be compensating you for the loss of his labour.”

 

_\--------------------_

 

Years from now, Rogers thinks, he will remember his first meeting with Thomas Hamilton; a man both exactly what he had been expecting and yet also nothing of the kind.

“It’s alright,” Rogers says, as Hamilton sits warily in the seat opposite him, bracketed by a pair of Oglethorpe’s guards. In the back of his mind, Rogers notes that both men are armed not only with pistol and sword, but with large wooden cudgels. One in particular keeps his hand on it as Hamilton settles in his seat, as the chains around his wrists clink together.

Rogers continues: “I've only come to talk.”

“You must have paid a great deal of money in order to talk, my Lord.”

“Not as much as I had expected,” Rogers shrugs. It does no harm to concede this point, after all. He looks up at the guards, and says, “leave us, please.”

“My Lord -” one starts, “our orders were -" 

“I have a pistol. Mr Hamilton is in chains. I am fully confident in my ability to restrain him if he should cause me any trouble.”

“Trouble?” Hamilton asks as the guards exit the room. He raises his hands slightly from the table, displaying his manacles. “What trouble could I possibly create?”

“If past experience is any indication,” Rogers says, “a great deal.” And not only in this place.

Hamilton straightens slightly at this. “You haven’t come all this way, spent all that money, just to talk about that, my Lord.

Rogers allows himself to smile, just a little. “In a way, I have. You see, I have an interest in seeing New Providence Island set to rights, and I believe you can be of great value to me in that endeavour.”

For a brief moment, Rogers thinks he can see some great emotion in Hamilton’s eyes - then he blinks and it is gone.

“England intends to reassert colonial rule in Nassau, then,” Hamilton says finally. His voice has changed, Rogers notes. Where before there was evident curiosity, now there is studied indifference. Well, the man was a politician once. Rogers isn’t surprised at his reaction. “How many ships?”

“At the moment,” Rogers says, “eight.”

“And soldiers?”

“Seven hundred. I’m sure you in particular can imagine the effort it is taking me to arrange the whole affair.”

Rogers can hear the chains rattle as Hamilton clenches his fists. “I can,” Hamilton says. “What I cannot imagine is why you believe I could play a role in it.”

Hamilton’s hands are shaking slightly, Rogers notices. He reaches down for his satchel, and draws out two documents, placing them on the table.

He places his hand on the first document. “Your proposal from 1705, in which you detail the plan you put together in order to reclaim New Providence Island. I’m sure you recognise it.”

Hamilton doesn’t speak, but nods once, jaw tightly clenched.

Rogers gestures to the second document. “This is my own plan.”

“So I assumed,” Hamilton says coldly.  

Rogers pauses, and does his best not to frown. “All I have done, is finish what you began.”

“Finish it?”

“I have secured a blanket pardon for the pirates of New Providence Island,” Rogers says.

_“Pardons?”_

“Complete and universal.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You can’t - they would never -”   

“I understand this must be a shock for you,” Rogers says, as gently as he can manage. Thomas Hamilton might not be the madman he was once accused of being, but years in Bethlem must have left their mark. He reaches for his pistol, kept safe and hidden beneath his coat. “Things are different now,” he continues. “And, of course, I had the advantage of being able to build on your work. Without it, I most likely would not have been successful in my efforts to secure the pardons.”

“Why?”

“I’m sorry?”

Hamilton looks up finally, and Rogers finds himself unable to read his expression.

“Why the pardons? With seven hundred soldiers, you could take New Providence Island by force.”

_But not whole,_ Rogers thinks. _And not for long._

“Because I would risk losing any goodwill I might have among the men who might otherwise have accepted the pardon,” he says instead.

“Then why not blockade the island and choke off trade?”

“That could take months. I would much rather spend that time productively, remaking Nassau into a functional, profitable colony.” It’s not even a lie, really.

“With eight ships, you could carry enough supplies to outlast the pirates - what is stopping you from waiting them out?” Hamilton pauses, frowns, and Rogers tries to remain impassive.

“Oh, of course,” Hamilton says, almost inaudibly. He then tilts his chin up, straightens his back, and suddenly Rogers can imagine exactly how he must have looked in the House of Lords, all those years ago. “Several interested parties, in a project like this. Schedules set in stone. You couldn’t bargain with them for any more time?”

Rogers only notices his mouth is dry when he starts to speak. “With some. Whitehall, my equity investors, my creditors. But there is one party-”

“Spain,” Hamilton interrupts, and Rogers narrowly avoids choking on his words. “What did you promise them?”

_Too damn much_ , Rogers thinks. “Some months ago, a pirate crew captured a Spanish Treasure Galleon named _l’Urca de Lima,_ carrying a cargo in excess of five million Spanish dollars. Spain is insisting that I retrieve the gold and return it to Havana.”

“Promptly.” It is not a question.

“Indeed. If not -”  

“Then they burn Nassau to the ground.”

“…Yes.” Despite himself, Rogers is surprised.

Hamilton sighs. “Don’t look so surprised, My Lord. I am still capable of reason. Despite reports to the contrary.”

“They gave me eight weeks. If I do not return the _Urca’_ s gold within that timeframe, then every man, every woman, every child on that island will burn.”

“And you return to England a failure,” Hamilton says. “Perhaps even end up in a place like this.”

“Indeed,” Rogers leans forward, catches Hamilton’s eyes. “With the pardons I have secured, I believe I can take Nassau within that time. Restore peace, law and order to the island. Just as you wanted.”

Hamilton is still frowning, however. Rogers watches as his finger taps once, twice, against the desk.

“Be that as it may,” he says finally. “I am still unaware of any way in which I might be able to assist you. From what you have told me, the matter seems to have been tidily resolved in your favour. How pleasant that must be for you.”

Rogers cannot help the sound of frustration from leaving him. “Lord Hamilton-“

“That hasn’t been my name for some time; it means nothing to me.”  

“Well perhaps this name does - _Captain James Flint_.”

At this, Hamilton freezes, and his eyes harden.

“…I know the name,” he says after a beat of silence.

Rogers smirks. “I thought you might. The name of the man who killed your father - who killed the Lord Governor Peter Ashe. Though I doubt you mourned their deaths.”

“No,” Hamilton says, unnecessarily. Rogers had already seen the answer on his face.

Rogers stands, hoping to force Hamilton to look up at him.

“Lord Hamilton, you know that I know why you are really here.”

“Yes, I’ve gathered that,” Hamilton says, and somehow, with just four words he has made Rogers feel like an errant schoolboy, called into the master’s office. Standing was a mistake.

“The story told in London is that Thomas Hamilton’s wife had a torrid affair with an officer in her Majesty’s Navy, Thomas’ closest friend. That Thomas died of grief in Bethlem Royal Hospital, heart-broken at the betrayal.” He pauses a moment, allowing the words to sink in the silence between them. “But that’s not what happened, is it.”

Hamilton blinks once, twice, then stands. He is taller than Rogers, and built like a farmhand. But he is in chains, and the pistol under Rogers’ coat is a welcome, comforting weight.

“Why are you here?” Hamilton asks.

“The officer-” Rogers tilts his head, searches for the right words. “I know that you and he were… close.”  

Hamilton snorts dismissively, and his face twists. “Say what you mean, my Lord. We loved each other - we were lovers.”

“I was trying to be polite.”

“I do not consider my love for James to be offensive, nor his for me!”

“Yes, I can see that,” Rogers says calmly. He watches as Hamilton looks away, as his hands clench into fists - with them in manacles, Hamilton cannot hope to conceal his reaction, as he no doubt wishes to.

“Why invoke his name?” Hamilton whispers, and oh, if Rogers had any doubts about the depth of feeling between Hamilton and his former lover, they are gone now. “He is dead.”

And now for the moment of truth.

“No, my Lord,” Rogers says. “He lives. But he goes by a different name now.”

Hamilton seems to stop breathing for a moment, blinking rapidly.

_He is in chains, and I have a pistol._

“No,” Hamilton begs. “Please - don’t -”

“And that name -”

“ _Please -_ ”

“- is Flint.”

“No,” Hamilton’s voice is no more than a whisper now. And again, “No. He wouldn’t… Peter wouldn’t…” He collapses back into his chair. “You’re lying,” he says, staring down - perhaps at the floor, perhaps at his chains, perhaps at nothing but memories long dead.

“Why would I lie?”

“Men like you always lie.”

“Men like _us_ , Lord Hamilton. Men like you, and I, and James McGraw.”

“We were _nothing_ like you,” Hamilton’s sudden energy is almost disturbing - intense emotion animating his features. “We sought to _change_ England - to make the New World something more than an extension of the old. You, by your own admission, want the exact opposite!”  

Rogers remains calm, and wonders if Hamilton meant to use the past tense for himself. It speaks volumes, whether intentional or not. “I have no reason to lie to you, and every reason to tell the truth. If Captain Flint - if _James McGraw_ \- were to organise the pirates of Nassau to resist colonial rule, then he could cause problems for me. And he would most certainly die. It would seem to be in everyone’s interest then, for you to convince him to accept the pardon I am going to offer.”

“That’s the second lie you’ve told me.”

“I -"  

Hamilton’s laugh is dark, and utterly devoid of mirth. “I see what you are. You don’t want me to _persuade_ him - you  want me for a hostage. A tool which you might use to break James, to force him into submission.”

“I am certain it will not come to that,” Rogers says, returning to his seat.  

“Oh, you are certain?” Hamilton glares at him. “Allow me to make something quite clear - I do not believe you. I do not believe _this_. But if there is even the slightest chance that it is true, that James Flint really is the man I loved all those years ago… then I refuse to willingly put myself in a position where I might be used to harm him.”

Rogers frowns. He had not expected Lord Hamilton to be so obstinate, nor so lacking in pragmatism. “I am offering you freedom -”  

“You offer nothing of the kind,” Hamilton interrupts quietly.

“This is _your_ plan. It is exactly what you wanted - no one will be hanged, no one will even be tried -”

_“This is not what I wanted!”_

“Lord Hamilton -“

“THAT IS NOT MY NAME!” Hamilton’s shout brings the guards back into the room, but Hamilton seems not to notice, and Rogers holds up a hand to halt them. “It was,” Hamilton continues, breathlessly. “Before it, like all else, was taken from me. Before I was called a madman, and treated as such. Before my wife and lover were driven from my side, from our home, by threat of execution, when neither they nor I had done anything to warrant such treatment. And all for these pardons.”

He shakes his head.

“All these things we have suffered, at the hands of England. At the hands of men such as you. Men who in their desperation have turned to this plan, _my plan_ , when once they called it madness.”

Hamilton laughs again; helplessly, hopelessly. “Madness,” he says again. “How can that be?”

Rogers looks at him for a moment, assessing, calculating. Of course, it would have been _convenient_ to have Lord Thomas Hamilton by his side to convince Captain Flint to surrender. But it is by no means the only way Rogers can use Hamilton to achieve the desired outcome, as Hamilton has already pointed out. “Is that your final word on the subject?”

“I suppose it must be,” Hamilton says softly, still looking down at his hands.

“You understand that I do not require your cooperation in this matter.”

“I understand. I have no way of stopping you.” Hamilton looks up. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t try.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this is the only chapter from Rogers' pov


	2. Chapter 2

It is very dark, in the hold of a ship. Thomas had forgotten - had been happy to forget. At least in Bethlem he had light, at times. There were people who would talk to him. Would talk  _ at  _ him. The sound of another human voice had meant a lot, nevertheless. It had been a reminder that there was life outside the walls of his cell, beyond the restrictions of his chains. 

The journey from Bethlem to Oglethorpe’s plantation had seemed never-ending. At least this time, he knows his destination. How pitiful has he become that this is a comfort? 

There is still blood on his shirt. For once, Thomas does not regret that. 

_ “I am sorry,” _ Oglethorpe had said, just after Rogers had left.  _ “I am so very sorry.”  _

That hadn’t been all he said, of course. Never one to let the chance to justify himself pass him by, Oglethorpe had talked and talked. Thomas hadn’t listened to most of it, merely stood there, listless. Oh yes, he had learnt his lesson some time ago. But Oglethorpe’s apology had shocked Thomas, and for a moment he could hear nothing but his own heartbeat, and the blood rushing in his ears.

And then his senses returned, and he heard Oglethorpe say,  _ “I would have kept you here, had I been given the choice, you must know that.”  _

He had probably broken Oglethorpe’s nose. There was an almighty crunch anyway, Thomas remembers that, remembers how satisfying it felt to hear it.

How dare he? For so many years, Thomas had waited for some sign that Oglethorpe had come to his senses, realised what he was doing to Thomas and so many others. What he had taken from them. How dare he apologise for something else?

His blood is still on Thomas’ shirt, and Thomas is proud of that. Even now. Even here. 

There is a part of him that regrets not doing more. 

Somehow salt gets into everything, even down in the hold. Thomas tastes it in his mouth, feels the sting where chains have rubbed his wrists raw. Every time he wakes, he can feel it on his skin. 

Only now, it is not…  _ he  _ is not… 

The taste of salt was a comfort once, years ago. James had returned and all was well and as soon as they were alone, Thomas had been able to hold him, to kiss him, and he had tasted the ocean salt then too. 

It takes a moment for Thomas to realise that he is crying again. 

“Fuck,” he says, his voice like a rusty hinge, corroded by the salt in the air and in his tears. 

Try as he might, Thomas cannot think of a reason that Woodes Rogers would seek him out if he did not have a good reason to, let alone pay to have him transported across the Atlantic. He has found it equally impossible to come up with a purpose Rogers might have for him, if not that which he suggested. Therefore, Thomas has been forced to conclude that Rogers believes that he told Thomas the truth. That Rogers believes that James is alive. 

God, even thinking it makes Thomas want to sob. 

Peter Ashe was an unrepentant liar, and Thomas knows this to be true. The faith and trust that he had in Peter was destroyed the moment that he realised what Peter had done. Had Peter told him anything else, that day he came to the plantation and looked at Thomas with crocodile tears in his eyes, then Thomas would have dismissed it without a second thought. 

But when Peter had brought the news of James McGraw’s death at sea some years previously, a part of Thomas had taken it as confirmation of a fact he had already accepted. 

The men from Bethlem entered his life violently. Doors slamming open,  _ “my lord, you must come with us.” “I beg your pardon?” “No, wait - you cannot - Thomas!” _

Darling Miranda, dearest wife. Thomas thinks he might have begged her, for all the good it would do. He had wept as they took him away, knowing that now, two things were impossible. The first, that James would forget him, and save himself, and life a normal life. The second, that James would be able to save him.  

_ My Truest Love.  _ The faith and trust that Thomas had felt for James in the moment he wrote those words never once wavered. 

He cannot think of a reason why Woodes Rogers would have any use for him if James Flint is not James McGraw. He does not trust Peter’s word. And it occurs to Thomas as he sits in the dark, that if he assumes that Peter  _ did  _ lie about James’ death, then he surely would not have had any great difficulty in telling James and Miranda a similar lie. 

And yet, people do not change so quickly. Peter was a liar. But Peter was a coward, too, and he would never do something so dangerous without good reason.

Nothing makes sense, and Thomas can barely see his hands in front of him. The urge to double over and weep is almost violent.  _ This is torture,  _ he thinks,  _ and I cannot stand it, for it is self-inflicted.  _

His thoughts never quiet, and his doubts are always with him. 

He thinks, how would Rogers know to look for him if Peter had not told Rogers?

He thinks, why would Peter do that, unless he had a reason?

He thinks, what could that reason be, other than that Peter agreed with Rogers’ plan? 

When Thomas had first set foot on a ship, all those years ago, he heard the waves beating ceaselessly against the shipsides, and wanted quite desperately to sink beneath them. Not that he wanted to die, but he thought that his bones might someday be worn away to nothing but dust in the water, and might be taken by the ocean currents so that some day, some part of him might find what remained of James, and then no one would be able to separate them in death as they had been in life. He could not bear the thought of submersion in water - still cannot; the scars of Bethlem are deep, it seems - but in that moment, he had forgotten, or the thought of saltwater did not bother him as much, or his desire to be where James was overcame the fear Bethlem had taught him.  

He has never been sure. He realises now that he might have been a little mad, then. 

Now his sobs batter his ribcage - heavy, in and out with no end in sight, saltwater on his face. When he bites the back of his hand to stifle the noise, he tastes salt there too, but cannot tell if it is from the tears or the sea.

He wants it to be true. God, he wants James to be alive, wants all this pain to end, to cease and subside so he can rest.

  
  
  


_ \-------------------- _

  
  
  


Thomas does not know how many days it has been since they left Savannah when the battle begins, but he knows that he has been fed around a dozen times. Probably longer than a week. He has been hungry the whole time. Either it is over quickly, or most of it is inaudible to him. 

He hears the cannons, and men screaming. Then there is silence for a long while. 

Thomas cannot tell whether he wants to laugh or to cry. Perhaps he is going mad, finally. Perhaps the pirates who have taken this ship on which he is held prisoner will open the door to the hold and find him completely mad. Perhaps then he will not care whether those he loves are living or dead; whether Miranda still laughs and plays Purcell and reads out loud in the afternoon, whether James still loves Milton and Homer and sleeps on the left hand side of the bed. 

Do pirates read Milton? Does Captain Flint? 

In the end, his capture is fairly painless. His door is opened and he is met by the pirate captain himself, or so he is soon told. He wouldn’t have known it to look at the man. Captain Hallendale is of average height, rather stout, and has a nervous expression on his face as one of his men unlocks Thomas’ irons.  

“Thomas Hamilton,” Hallendale says after introducing himself, and for a moment Thomas wonders how this pirate knows his name, before realising that it must have been recorded somewhere in the manifest. Likely along with the amount Rogers must have paid for his passage back to England. 

“Hamilton,” Hallendale says again. “As in Lord Hamilton, Lord Proprietor to the Carolina Colony.” 

Thomas takes a moment to silently curse Woodes Rogers. 

“I am told Lord Edward Hamilton is a young man,” Hallendale continues, looking Thomas up and down, still with that curious expression on his face. “You’re too old to be his son.” 

“His brother,” Thomas says carefully, all too aware of the raw sound of his own voice. 

Hallendale seems to deflate at his answer, yet he gestures to the man who had unlocked the irons and Thomas is led out into the sunlight. 

  
  
  
  


_ \-------------------- _

  
  
  
  


Aboard Hallendale’s ship, the  _ Straight Arrow _ , Thomas had been stowed in a cabin. The door was locked but the window wasn’t, not in all the time it took for them to return to… wherever they are. None of the pirates had been willing to tell Thomas their destination. 

Now he is in a cold, dark cell, and there is no window, and his wrists hang heavy with the chains securing him to the floor. 

It is not Bethlem. It  _ cannot  _ be Bethlem, because London is far away - leagues from Savannah, certainly, and Thomas may have lost track of the days in the belly of the first ship but he knows he could not have been brought so far in so short a time. 

That is, unless he never left. Perhaps he has truly been mad all this time. Perhaps Oglethorpe and his moralising and his fucking sugar cane fields were all just a fantasy. 

He is cold. He hates the cold. He was warm on the second ship, if he was ever on any ship at all. If they submerge him in ice again, he might die. He will die. The chains are dragging him down - in Bethlem they rarely left him alone for so long without a reason. 

_ “You are agitated, Thomas”,  _ and _ “You are overcome with grief”,  _ and _ “Thomas, you must calm yourself.” _

Grief. Yes, he was grieving. Is grieving still. 

The cell seems to grow smaller with every breath he takes, and surely that cannot be? But then he believes the Atlantic cannot be crossed within a fortnight, so perhaps mad men cannot know what is impossible. 

He is cold all over, and very weak. If only someone would talk to him - even Oglethorpe, even Peter - anyone. 

His hands shake, and Thomas can barely see them. The things he has done with his own two hands - and oh, a thought strikes him suddenly, makes him gasp. In Bethlem his hands were scarred, yes, and made rough from years living in a world of harsh stone, but Oglethorpe’s plantation changed them yet again. Calluses from the tools, a deep scar on his left palm from a jagged cane in his first summer - they surely cannot be imagined? If he can feel them still then those things must have happened to him, yes? Those years? 

Both hands on his face, pressing hard and yes,  _ there _ , he can feel them. 

“I am not mad,” Thomas whispers. “I am not. I am not yet mad.” 

A pirate crew would not take him to Bethlem. This place cannot be Bethlem, no matter how much it feels like it. Thomas doubles over, clenching his hands in his hair, and grits his teeth. 

This will end, it must do. Pirates would not just take him prisoner and leave him to rot - they must have had a reason. Ransom, most likely. They will contact Edward, and Edward will give them the money they ask for, and then he will send Thomas back to Oglethorpe’s plantation. Thomas just has to wait. 

Wait, and remember that the walls are not closing in on him. 

“This is not Bethlem. I am not yet mad.” 

The silence here is different from the silence on the ship. Perhaps it is because ships are made of wood, a dead thing that once lived and grew and perhaps remembers a little of what that felt like. Stone is just stone. It is still. Thomas can feel the stillness pressing down on him. 

He is proved right eventually. A man comes with food - bread and water, more than Thomas was ever given at one time on the first ship. He is young and carries both sword and pistol, and he does not make Thomas beg before he places the plate and cup on the floor.

Thomas does not take his eyes off the man, but reaches for the bread all the same. He eats slowly, and the man stares as he does. 

“Captain says you’re a lord,” the man says. 

“Yes.”

“An’ your brother’s an Earl.” 

Thomas repeats himself. In another life, or even a few weeks ago, he might have made a comment about the relative inefficiency of asking questions to which one already knows the answer. But then the man - and Thomas does try not to make assumptions, but he really  _ must _ be a pirate - might leave him in the dark again. 

For some reason, he is less cold now that he has company. But soon he will be alone again, and for a moment Thomas struggles to think of something he can say, anything to keep the pirate here. 

He does not remember being brought here, only falling asleep sitting at the window in the cabin of Hallendale’s ship. He had woken in darkness. They must have drugged him.  

“Where am I?”, Thomas asks. “What is this place?” 

“‘S the fort,” the pirate says, apparently bemused by the question. “Was Captain Hornigold’s, then Captain Vane took it. He gave it up a few months back, said it was gonna be used to protect the island. No fuckin’ point if you ask me.” 

“Wait -” Thomas speaks without thinking, but dear God how can he not - he  _ knows  _ those names. 

“Hornigold and Vane, they are some of the pirates of New Providence Island, are they not?” 

The pirate looks at him blankly, and Thomas wants to scream or laugh or fucking  _ stand up  _ so that he might retain at least some dignity. 

_ Return to thy sober senses and call thyself back; and when thou hast roused thyself from sleep and hast perceived that they were only dreams which troubled thee, now in thy waking hours look at these as thou didst look at those. _

This is not Bethlem, not London, not England. How could he have been so  _ stupid  _ \- how could he not have seen that he was imprisoned in a fort, not have asked himself how many pirates could possibly have access to one, and feel comfortable storing a prisoner there?

_ “Nassau,”  _ Thomas says, breathless and with a touch of reverence he had thought lost to him years ago. “This is Nassau.” And if this is Nassau - if Rogers had been telling the truth, and Peter lying, then - Christ, surely it is too much to hope for? 

In retrospect, trying to stop the pirate from leaving was a terrible idea. He had forgotten that, somehow. 

_ “I can help - listen to me, I know what his plan is, I know how many ships he has, how many men - you have to tell them, please -”  _

Or perhaps it just hadn’t mattered, caught up as he had been in the thought that he could be of use, could  _ help defend Nassau,  _ help it resist its enemies and remain strong and prosperous and  _ free.  _ He hadn’t felt that way since - well, since the last time. 

_ “Let me help you, please -”  _

_ “Fuck off -”  _

_ “- the governor is coming, I know how to stop him but you have to make them listen -” _

_ “I said -”  _

_ “Please, you don’t understand -”  _

_ “- fuck off!”  _

A triptych of pain - his jaw where he was struck, the back of his head where it cracked against the wall, his tongue where he bit down hard. Blood between his lips, coating his teeth, now there’s a taste he hasn’t missed. By the time the dizziness abates and his sight returns, he is alone again. Somehow that hurts worse than the blow. 

The cold returns quickly. Thomas buries his face in his hands and makes a low sound, just because he can. He wants water. Reaches for it, brings it to his lips, but then - 

_ “It is for your own good, Thomas”,  _ and _ “the ice baths are necessary for one of your disposition”,  _ and  _ “hold him under, keep his head down, that’s it Thomas, don’t struggle now.” _

He hurls it away - it hits the wall and there is water on his face and he cannot bear it. Oglethorpe’s guards had known that - had been told by Peter. 

Thomas had tried to escape from the plantation only once. He hadn’t made it far, and when they caught him, they dragged him back and made him sit in cold water for a day. If left alone, the water might have been warmed by the sun - but they were cruel, and cold water from the well was added every hour. When they let him go, Thomas cried and clung to the man that had released him. He only remembered later that was the same man who had chained him in the first place. 

_ “Be good,” _ they said.  _ “Yes, yes - anything, just please - please don’t - don’t!”  _

Thomas wants to scream or moan, anything to vocalise the unbearable feeling inside him. A compromise: he holds it in with both hands. It turns into dry sobs and there is nothing Thomas can do about that. 

This place is not Bethlem, he  _ knows  _ that, so why can he not control himself? 

Perhaps it is this place, he thinks. Perhaps it is affecting his mind. A lifetime ago, James told him stories of men living through terrible battles, who thereafter think themselves returned to that traumatic event whenever they are fired upon. Bethlem was a war, in its own way. And this place, this dungeon cell, looks so very like his cell in London. 

Then again, what sounds like reason to him may in reality be madness. 

Thomas closes his eyes and tries to focus on breathing. When he opens them again, the pitch black of the cell has turned to murky grey, and when he looks up he can see the cause. 

A window, high up and cut into the stone, unreachable even to one of his stature. The light that enters through it falls on the hard stone floor, and Thomas wants to curl up in it, catlike, but cannot. The chains do not extend so far. 

He stares at the patch of sunlight and lists all the differences he can see between this place and Bethlem. 

When Peter had told Thomas of his father’s death, he had said that the Earl had been travelling under a false name - that Captain Flint had hunted him down. Surely any pirate, knowing they had captured one of the Lords Proprietor, would not think twice before ransoming him? Unless they had a reason to want him dead. James and Miranda would have had several. 

_ No, _ Thomas thinks.  _ No, surely the world cannot be so kind. _

A moment later he feels shame like an anchor under his breastbone. 

The first time he had heard the name Flint, he was still in Bethlem. He has heard it many times since. Perhaps it is selfish of him to want Flint to be his James. Perhaps James would rather be dead than have people talk of him as Thomas knows men talk of Flint. 

With relative sight, other senses seem to return to him. Somewhere beyond the door, he can hear footsteps and low voices. Outside the window seabirds call to each other. His jaw is tender and aching, and Thomas hopes that the bruise developing there is concealed by his meagre beard - which is untidy and greying and Thomas truly loathes it, but there is of course nothing to be done.  

By the time the door opens, Thomas thinks he has managed to reconstruct himself - returned to his  _ sober senses  _ \- though the sound of a cell being unlocked is apparently the same whether in England or Carolina or Nassau, and it makes him flinch a little. 

A soft, cut off gasp - feminine - Thomas looks up hesitantly to see a young woman, dark-skinned and frowning. Her dress is a well made, bright riot of colour - Thomas can barely look at it; for so long, his world has been relatively monochrome. It makes his eyes ache slightly.

“What is this,” she speaks with a strong french creole accent, and it takes Thomas a second to realise that she is not addressing him. 

Captain Hallendale stands behind her. He looks like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. 

_ “Why is this man here?” _

Thomas finds himself helpless but to watch as she berates Hallendale -  _ “You should have brought the matter to my attention the moment you returned!”  _ \- just as he can do nothing when she calls her man into the cell. 

No, not a man - a woman dressed like a pirate, with long red hair and a foul expression on her face as she crouches down to release Thomas from his irons. It occurs to him as she does that the pirates could not possibly have arranged a ransom yet. 

“I apologise for your treatment thus far, my lord,” the first woman says, calmer now.

Thomas regards her carefully. She holds herself like someone aware of their own importance, but not unconsciously. It’s something she has learned, then, and well. 

His mouth dry, wrists still aching: “Who are you?” 

The next few moments are hard to process, so Thomas does not try. They take him from his cell, up several flights of rough-hewn steps. The woman, who introduces herself with a smile as  _ Max _ , leads the way, and her taciturn partner ( _ Anne _ ) keeps a firm grip on Thomas’ arm. 

The room they bring him to is lit with flickering torches, and there is a bed, a real bed, not merely a cot or a pile of straw on cold flagstones, with blankets and pillows and that alone would have been enough to make him weep. 

Yet what brings tears to his eyes is the window - an entirely different sort from the last. 

A deep breath - the sea, clear and blue and extending to the horizon; stumbling forward - ships in the bay, sails furled,  _ you see James I have remembered that much _ ; his hands clutching at the rough stone of the windowsill - people, people on the beach, so many, men and women and children. 

It takes a few moments before he can bring himself to turn away. He just catches the edge of Max’s glare, directed towards Hallendale, and he is glad that it was not directed at him. 

“Sorry,” Thomas says. “I am - I did not mean -” 

“It is of no concern to me,” Max says, which is good because Thomas had no idea how he was to end that sentence. “May we have the room, please?”

Hallendale does not argue, but the pirate Anne shoots Thomas a dark look, and only departs after Max mutters something to her. Jealousy and longing batter him in turn at the soft touch the two women share - two hands, palms pressed together; strength and support and tenderness. It has been a very long time since anyone has touched him in that way. 

“This is not what I wanted,” Max says, once they are alone. “And I cannot promise that you will survive this. There are many on this island with reason to see a man like you dead, and more who would see the merits of their argument. The pirates of Nassau, since the events of Charlestown, are resolved to defend the island against colonial rule. Alliances have been made, pledges have been given. Captains Flint and Vane have put aside their differences in order to achieve this end. And their strategy is founded on the principle that if the pirates sow enough chaos and destruction, then England will fear the cost of retaking this place too much to consider it. But if Whitehall were to hear that we took the brother of the Lord Proprietor hostage, or worse yet, killed him, then no amount of fear will be enough to prevent them seeking retribution. And yet, if they were to simply let you go -” 

“I imagine that would also compromise their plans,” Thomas says distantly. His mind is a thousand miles away. 

_ If Captain Flint - if James McGraw - were to organise the pirates of Nassau to resist colonial rule, then he could cause problems for me. _

Oh dear God, can it be true? Can Thomas bear not to do everything in his power to help, nevertheless? 

No.  _ No. _

“They are already coming,” he says, and then the words are spilling out of him and he cannot even try to hold them back: “Eight ships, at least seven hundred soldiers - his name is Rogers -” 

“Whose name?” 

“The  _ governor _ , Rogers, Woodes Rogers - he has a plan,  _ my plan,  _ he -” 

Max has frozen in place. “How do you know this?”  

Thomas wants to weep, he might already be - he thinks that if she does not listen to him then he will have to shout from the window. They have to know, he has to tell them,  _ warn  _ them. 

“He came to me,” Thomas says urgently. “He wanted me - wanted my help - you have to tell them, please -” 

“Why?” Max’s voice is hard, her eyes gone cold. 

“Because I know how he intends to defeat them, and I know how to stop him!” 

Thomas stands there, chest heaving, and realises that she does not believe him. 

“Please,” he says again.  _ Please, I cannot fail a second time.  _ “You must believe me,  _ please _ .”

Max looks at him for a long moment, then says, “I need more information than that.” 

“What?” 

“I need to know how you came by this information. I need to know why it is that the brother of an Earl was travelling in the hold of a merchant vessel. I need to know the full extent of your association with Woodes Rogers, and I need to know why you believe I should take your word that you are telling me the truth.” 

_ This is not what I wanted,  _ she said, and Thomas finds himself suddenly recalling a far more distant memory: Bethlem, three days after he was taken. Him, sitting in the filth. Peter, standing there begging:  _ “I had no choice, Thomas”, “Your father threatened my family, my daughter”,  _ and  _ “I did not want this.”  _

In the space between one breath and the next, Thomas realises that he might have been looking at the problem wrong this whole time. He had been looking for a reason why Peter would tell James that he was dead, when all the while that reason had been staring him in the face. 

Peter tells James that Thomas is dead, so James kills Alfred Hamilton. Peter has reason to want Alfred Hamilton dead. 

“Flint…” Thomas breathes. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Captain Flint, he knows me.”  _ He thinks that I am dead, but he knows me.  _ “Tell him I’m here. Ask him if I can be trusted.” 


	3. Chapter 3

When James walks into Rackham’s parlour, Billy and Silver close behind, a familiar hush descends over the room.

_Reputation_. The weight of their regard. It’s a noose around his throat, always has been. The events of Charlestown took the scaffolding out from under him, let the noose jerk tight.

Anne Bonny stands waiting for them, the brim of her hat shadowing half her face, only the pale line of her jaw and unmistakable red hair on display.

“They’re upstairs,” she mutters. James doesn’t bother replying, just follows her up and tries not to look around the room. How it’s changed since the first time he saw it, how he has changed. And neither for the better.

Most of the people who matter are in the Governor’s office - Rackham, Vane, Max - even Mr Featherstone stands nearby.

“Well?” James speaks to the room at large. “Why am I here?”

“We have a problem,” Max’s voice is low.

James raises one eyebrow in reply. “Two days ago,” he says, “the magistrate in St. Kitts hanged three men in his square for piracy. Now I intend to see him pay for it, and I cannot do that if I am prevented from -”

“A rather large and immediate problem,” Rackham interrupts. “Involving a hostage that Captain Hallendale took from a prize last week. It seems as though England has set her eyes on reconquering this place.”

“Well then,” James says quietly. "It seems we’re fortunate that someone thought it prudent several weeks past to track down a supply of coin that will see us through this, doesn’t it." It's not a question.

Of all of them, Vane is the only one who meets his eyes.

_Oh yes,_ James doesn’t say. _Don’t think I’ve forgotten._

In this room, Billy Bones is the only one who hasn’t crossed him - and James is well aware of the irony that of all of them, Billy is probably the only one who truly has reason to hate him.

“Perhaps it would have been wise for _someone_ not to sack Charlestown,” Max’s voice is bitter, and for a moment James hates her for it.

“No,” he says, not bothering to hide the anger and impatience in his tone. “There is no way any proposal to retake Nassau is completed in such a short space of time.”

So when James and Miranda had gone to see Peter, it had already been decided.

So when they had put their proposal to him, he had already known it was futile.

_So when she died screaming -_

“This hostage,” James asks, “Who is he? How do we know his information is accurate?”

“He’s the brother of a Lord Proprietor; Lord Thomas Hamilton.”

For all that Dufresne has fucked off - and good riddance - James still lives with the consequences of his mutiny. It’s left him with the mere illusion of proper movement in his left arm, and the truth, though known only to himself, is that he can’t raise it above his shoulder without pain, or bear weight for longer than a few minutes. Two weeks ago, a watchman in Martinique slammed into him from the left, and James almost vomited from the pain of it.

That was nothing to this.

“Who the _fuck_ told you that?” His voice is rough, breathless; he doesn’t care.

“He did,” Max replies cooly. “As did the cargo manifest of the ship on which he was being transported.”

“It can’t be,” the anger ( _grief_ ) distorts his voice, cracks it right down the middle, and James can’t continue, only repeat. “It _can’t_ be.”  

“Why not?” Interesting that Vane is the one to speak up, but perhaps not unexpected.

James has caught the edge of his scrutiny more than a few times since Charlestown. Vane doesn’t bother to hide it. He remembers the events just after Peter’s death like a dream: blurred, tinged with horror, mostly James remembers how it felt to ram his borrowed sword in Peter’s belly. But he knows that - he knows Miranda’s body was near, he knows he turned Peter’s face to look at her, to _see_ what he’d done, as James did every time he closed his eyes. He also knows that Vane came close to dragging him away - standing over him and Peter both, voice low and rough, _“Move!”_ It’s more than likely Vane saw her, the display those people had made of her.

No matter what Vane _saw_ , he has no right. None of them do.

James slams his fist down hard on the desk that he is still hard-pressed not to think of as _Thomas’._ Here he stands, in the office that Thomas should have claimed, in the house Thomas should have made his home, and someone has the _nerve_ to -

Why? Why would someone take _his_ name?

If given the chance, James will gut the charlatan slow. If the chance is not given, then he will _take_ it.

Thomas, _Thomas_. How to say his name without it hurting. How to hear it without weeping.

It’s a sacred name, carefully treated with hurt, rage and so much love - they don’t get to say it; no one does. It _hurts,_ a knife in a wound that’s never even begun to heal, tearing it open and exposing the soft parts of him.

James fills his lungs to the brim, lets the air go reluctantly. It burns like he’s taken a lungful of seawater.

“Thomas Hamilton is dead,” he says, and his voice doesn’t sound his own. No matter how many times he says it, it’s never any easier. “He died years ago.”

Max’s expression is inscrutable. “And you know this for certain?”

“Yeah,” James says, blinking hard and fast like that’s going to change anything. He thinks there’s a howl in his chest.

“How?”

_Because I didn’t save him,_ James doesn’t say.

“Where is he?” He growls instead.

 

_\--------------------_

 

Vane remains at his right hand as they enter the fort.

“Whatever happens,” James mutters to him, “don’t get in my way.”

“Don’t do something that’s gonna get you killed then,” Vane snorts, hands resting on the hilts of his blades.

James only gives him a dark look.

He doesn’t trust Charles Vane, but there are _definitely_ people he trusts less: case and point, Silver coming up behind them, assisted by Billy. It seems he’s got the good sense not to try James’ patience by trying to talk to him, although James has to consider the possibility they’ve been talking behind his back the whole way here.

Unfortunately, there is one other member of their small party.

“Just _please_ don’t kill him until we have all the facts,” Rackham’s voice has grown harder to ignore since he caught up with James and Vane. “It’s _entirely_ possible that this man holds the key to any _chance_ we might have of repelling an imminent British invasion -”

“He’s already lied about who he is,” James interrupts.

“But how can you be _sure?”_ Rackham’s voice echoes around the corridor. “Is there no possibility that you might be mistaken? That -”

“None.” 

He’s spent ten years reminding himself of that fact, yet still, it’s a rare morning when he doesn’t wake up and _hope,_ just for an instant, that he’s wrong.

Once he mistook Miranda’s hand in his hair for Thomas’. He had been near delirious from a fever, hadn’t been thinking clearly, and for one shining moment he had believed.

He wasn’t able to look her in the eye for days afterwards.

The point is, it had only brought pain. This man, whoever it is _pretending_ to be Thomas, whatever reason he has for doing it, he’s done the same. James will make him pay for it.

Mr Scott walks ahead of them, keys in hand.

“What say you, Mr Scott?” Rackham calls to him. “Lord or fraud?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Vane mutters.

“I could not say for certain,” Scott says slowly. “But, given what is at stake, I believe we would be wise to take some time to consider what he has to say.”

“I’ve considered it,” James snaps.

“We’re only relying on his word,” Silver pipes up. “Since none of us have the faintest clue what Lord Hamilton looks like; and a good liar can make a lot of things sound like the truth, believe me.”

At least James isn’t the only one who snorts.

Scott leads them to a door near the top of the fort. “A moment, please,” he says.

“Flint,” Rackham says, moving to stand between James and the door. _“Please_ at least let me talk to the prisoner before you do whatever it is you plan to do.”

“Get the _fuck_ out of my way,” James says, as steady and firm as he can.

“James?”

A phantom; a memory - James near jumps out of his skin because he thought that he just heard -

“James! James is that you?”

\- and it’s nothing like his vision, his Miranda - nothing more than an echo, a fragment of a dream -

_“James!”_

“Thomas…” barely more than a whisper, more fervent than a prayer. _“Thomas -”_

Rackham gets out of the way just before James slams into the door - bone and muscle against old wood and weakened stone, but _christ_ it hurts -

_We’re gonna get him out of there._ The impact reverberates back across his collarbone - _saltwater clawing at him, the agony of exposed nerves_ \- but within moments strong arms are around him, immobilising him. He tries to break Vane’s grip, then he tries to break his nose by throwing his head back, but neither are effective.

Vane shouts in his ear but James can’t make out the words. _You can’t._

_“Fuck -_ get the _fuck_ off me - let me - I need -”   _Watch me!_

_“James?!”_

_ThomasThomas - ohjesuschrist - Thomas -_

Scott, fumbling with the keys for a sickening, drawn-out moment - before time speeds up and the door opens and oh.

_Oh._

James’ sides are still heaving, his left side a whole world of pain - Vane releases him and none of that matters because Thomas is right there, standing before him. James needs him, he needs Thomas like air and then it hits him like a wave that he can _have_ him.

It feels like he’s walking out to sea - sand under his feet instead of steady ground, the tides drawing him ever closer. Then Thomas’ face breaks into a smile and he’s moving forward too and James sobs with relief as he feels Thomas’ arms close around him.

He doesn’t try to restrain his tears; self-control is irrelevant, Thomas can have that, can have _everything._ It briefly occurs to James that this moment is the fulfilment of a hundred dreams of his - to be held in Thomas’ arms again.

They fit together with shocking ease. For long moments they cling desperately to each other; James struggles to keep his eyes open through the tears; he can feel Thomas pressing his face into the exposed column of his throat.

“I need to see you,” Thomas whispers against the soft, vulnerable skin there, then pulls back slightly. “I need - let me see you.”

James doesn’t flinch from Thomas’ touch when he moves his hands to cup James’ head, pressing their foreheads together. There were times, with Gates, even Miranda - _don’t touch me I’ll decide when not you not you only me_ \- but not now, not here.  

Contact between them is so wonderfully easy. It always has been, ever since that first time - Thomas’ hand on his face, soft as water. James likes that image. The water he knows, _seawater_ , that leaves a mark on skin - can be felt long after the contact, can be tasted. Thomas’ touch changed him in a far more permanent way.

Palm to cheek - _you touched me like this the first time,_ James wants to say, _do you remember?_ The look in Thomas’ eyes says he does.

_Kiss me,_ James thinks, _like the last time, like the first time. Kiss me hold me keep me -_

Thomas sighs.

“I miss -”, he says, then laughs softly. “I _missed_ you. Christ, that's going to take some getting used to.”

“God, _Thomas_ -”

The kiss is soft, inviting, with a distant memory of heat in the way Thomas’ hand curves on the back of his neck, pulling him closer. _Hello,_ James thinks it says. _Hello, I missed you, I love you._

He can feel Thomas’ whole body against him, and his breath against James’ lips, as Thomas kisses him again and again. James can remember the last time he felt like this. A lifetime ago.

“James,” Thomas says, brushing his thumb over James’ lower lip once, twice, lingering softly at the curl of his smile. _“My James.”_

_Yes,_ James wants to say, _I am here and I am yours. I always was._

“I forgot this,” Thomas’ words are soft, wondrous, whispered in the quiet, perfect space between them. “Not _you,_ of course, but. The small things.”

Since leaving London, there have been a thousand things that James has mentally classified as “only for Thomas.” This confession is one of them, a secret worry he has never told anyone.

“I was the same. I thought I’d be dead before I forgot too much.”

He knows that Thomas hears the unspoken end of that sentence, _and I was glad._

The sadness this brings to Thomas’ face makes James’ heart ache, but there’s not much he can say to make it better. He never could lie to him.

“I just wanted to be where you were,” he says softly. “That’s all I wanted.”

“Excuse me,” A voice from behind them, nervous. Rackham. “But am I to gather from your… present state, that you have changed your mind regarding the fate of Mr Hamilton?”

James doesn’t want to look away from Thomas. He _really_ doesn’t.

He clears his throat. “Rackham,” he says, pitching his voice to carry. “Fuck you.”

“It’s a fair question, Captain.” _Silver_ . James curses the day he allowed that rat back onto his ship. The moment he can bring himself to pay attention to anything other than Thomas, he’s going to dedicate his life to getting him off the _Walrus_. Only Thomas is smiling down at him and given the way that makes him feel, James has to admit that SIlver’s position is probably safe for the moment.

“James,” Thomas says, quietly amused. “I think one of your companions may be laughing at us.”

“Long hair, beard?”

Thomas hums in agreement.

“Tall or short?”

“Taller than the other.”

“And fuck you too, Charles."   
  


_\--------------------_  


 

James wakes up with the sound of the sea filling his ears.

He used to cup an ear to Thomas’ chest and listen for the rushing ocean in his heartbeat. Now, unwilling, he does the reverse. It makes it hard to sleep on the _Walrus_.

Only - James frowns - this is neither a hammock, nor the berth in his cabin.

The surface beneath him shifts. A broad, gentle hand on his bare shoulder, another cupping his face. James reaches to put his hand over it without opening his eyes.

_“Oh,”_ he says quietly, “I _remember_ this.”

Thomas’ kiss on his forehead, Thomas’ hand stroking his cheekbone, newly callused but as kind as it ever was. Thomas’ voice, low and soft. “And do you remember this?”

“I do,” James tells him. “I do.”

It takes James a while to open his eyes, during which Thomas amuses himself by trailing kisses down James’ neck and narrating his progress.

“Do you remember the first time I kissed you here? It was in my study if I remember correctly - I had intended to wait until we reached my rooms but you just looked so beautiful in the candlelight and I couldn’t help myself - oh you _do_ still like that, how wonderful -”

Thomas probably has a plan. At least, he’s been acting like he does. James will ask him about it later. For now, there is sunlight, a warm bed, and love.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_“Now from his breast into his eyes the ache_

_of longing mounted, and he wept at last,_

_his dear wife, clear and faithful, in his arms,_

_longed for as the sunwarmed earth is longed for by a swimmer_

_spent in rough water where his ship went down_

_under Poseidon's blows, gale winds and tons of sea._

_Few men can keep alive through a big serf_

_to crawl, clotted with brine, on kindly beaches_

_in joy, in joy, knowing the abyss behind.”_

**― Homer, The Odyssey**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas very much _does_ have a plan. It's entirely possible I'll end up writing a coda/sequel in which he puts this plan into action.


End file.
